Poppie

May it rain on you
deep within the earth,
the sun find its way to your bones,
the stars in your hair
lighting a man so loved.
Our king, swaddled in history and fatherhood,
drunk up by a woman only half herself
without his eyes to carry her.

Woolen memories of their love, too young
to know the meaning.
Faraway man long gone into the heavens,
his soft head dusted white with hair.

Strings of blue eyes all the way
back to the lives he saved during the war, the letters
written in the dark rain asking her
to want him.
They bathed in the sea, hung their socks over
the back of the boat
from long black lines tied to their youth.

It nearly killed him
to come home with only half a stomach,
his mustache dripping with selflessness.
Medals in his pocket that he would
never open.
My dear grandfather, forget you not.